


Like Rain Under the Moon

by leupagus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Possessive Behavior, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sword-point makes a hissing, rasping noise on the stone as it lifts to block her path; light catches the iron and she has almost run into the flat before she realizes what it is. She looks down as the sword twists, blade scraping against the cloth covering her belly, and follows the shifting glint to meet Thorin’s eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Rain Under the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> So [the new Hobbit trailer came out](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbOEknbi4gQ), and I had (and still have, and will continue to always have) really strong feelings about the way Thorin tilts his sword up to cut against Bilbo as though he's about to kill him, and waldorph and screamlet said, "Hey you should channel this into some porn."
> 
> And thus.

The sword-point makes a hissing, rasping noise on the stone as it lifts to block her path; light catches the iron and she has almost run into the flat before she realizes what it is. Bella looks down as the sword twists, blade scraping against the cloth covering her belly, and follows the shifting glint to meet Thorin’s eyes.

“Where is it, burglar?” Thorin asks, so softly, his voice barely above a whisper though there is no one to hear — the Company have all started the trek to the Main Hall. Thorin said he would remain and see if the Arkenstone was easily found, and Bella volunteered to see if there was a way back through the tunnel. Distantly, she can hear the sound of pebbles still settling.

In the dark of the cavern, lit by a few torches and reflected dully by the sea of gold, Thorin’s face shows no trace of friendship, or even recognition. 

“Where is what?” She means to say it. She means to smile at him the way she has before, and wait for his reluctant, churlish smile back, as though tugging his affection out of him like a snarl in his hair.

But her own voice has left her and her mouth will not curl; the Arkenstone feels warm in her right pocket, her little ring safe in her left. She steps back and he follows, his sword a weight now upon her shoulder, where he has often clapped her gruffly.

“All the rest,” Thorin continues, still in that quiet, pacing voice, “All the rest have talked of which treasures they would like. Gold or jewels, fine armor. This sword, for example, belonged to the last Durin reborn, and Fili has expressed hope that it will pass to him.” The sword touches her neck, cold. “But you have said nothing of what share you will take.

“I haven’t thought about it, really,” is what she wants to tell him. But she reaches the step and stumbles, and the sword bites her skin, ticklish until she feels a trickle of blood at her collarbone.

He is still following her, down the steps, footing treacherous to her now with coins and jewels but his boots tread solidly, no unsteadiness in him. “What would you take from the wealth of Erebor, burglar?”

She intends to say, “Only some gold; we hobbits are not so creative as you.” But she trips, falling backward, knuckles cut on the sword as she flails for balance.

He darts forward and catches her, arm like stone around the small of her back. His sword is still raised, as though to strike her head off if she should move wrongly.

“Thorin,” she says at last, her throat raw as though she had screamed for a thousand years. “Thorin, I—“

“It may yet be that the Arkenstone still lies buried in this heap,” he says. “Do you think I’ll find it, with thorough searching?”

He drops the sword; it rings loudly against the stone and gold as it hits the ground. He brings his hand to her neck, his thumb pressed against the wound there; Bella can feel her pulse against the palm of his hand. “Please,” she says.

“A plea to a king,” he murmurs. “What would you ask for?”

Her heart is pounding and there are words she should say, must say, but even to think them seems too much.

“And what would you give,” Thorin asks, “In exchange?”

She kisses him. It is no answer yet it feels like the first truth she has disclosed in this cavern; hunger claws at her fear and seizes her heart. She grabs greedy fistfuls of his hair, keeping hold. His grip upon her tightens, he bites her lip and his thumb digs harder into her neck, as though he already sought to bury himself within her. She wants — anything, everything. She realizes she is saying this, a harshly whispered prayer against his mouth, when he silences her with a bloody finger at her lips.

“A boon,” he says, “To a loyal subject.” And with his other hand he draws out the Arkenstone from her pocket, its own light pale silver in the torchlight. “For the return of a great treasure.”

She does not want to look away from it, but he lifts her chin to force her to meet his gaze.

“You found this for me,” he says. She cannot shake her head nor nod, but he seems to find an answer in her silence, and roughly he shoves the jewel back into her pocket, fabric at her shoulder tearing from the force of it.

“What—“ she gasps. He is ripping at her coat, at her blouse; in the cavern the draft blows cold against her skin.

“You found this for me, but hid it away,” he says, handfuls of her ruined clothing in his fists as he shakes her. “What else would you hide from your king?”

“You’re not my king,” she says, another truth to hit over his head like a desperate brick. “I don’t owe you my—“

“You owe me _everything_ , burglar,” Thorin hisses, and shoves her to the ground. “And if I am not your king, you are still in my mountain, in my hoard.” He drops to his knees between her legs. “Under my command.”

“I’ve done what you employed me for,” she says, her hands slipping on coins and stone. “I’m released from my contract.”

“I see,” he says, crawling over her. His hand is braced beside her shoulder and his other slips under the ragged tear of her blouse, hot against her breast. “If you are released, then go. Take what you will and go.”

So she takes what she will, pulling him down onto her. He is huge and heavy against her, cheap wool and leather chafing her skin as he rocks against her. “Thorin,” she whispers, plucking at his clothes, but he grabs her wrists and presses them up above her head, holding them captive with one hand as he unbuckles his belt with the other. She parts her legs, arching her back to press up into him, impatient.

It seems to startle him; he gazes down at her in wonder. “You are wanton,” he breathes. “Even as I hold you here, bind you, you still want—“

“Anything,” she pleads, wrapping a leg around his waist. She can feel his cock along her thigh and she struggles uselessly against his grip, wanting nothing more than to pull him further in. “Thorin, anything, just ask and I will give—“

It is the wrong thing, or the right thing, to say; he lets her hands free in favor of using his own to ruck up her skirts, slipping past her underthings and between her thighs. “A king does not _ask_ , little halfling,” he says, taunting. “I will ask for nothing from you, not now or ever again. I will only demand and take.”

“Then take all you want, but I’ll not give,” she says, taunting right back. “You’ll not break me with your demands.”

It makes him laugh, a dark and frightening chuckle against her cheek. “You hobbits are so _easily_ broken,” he murmurs as he slides two vicious fingers into her, too thick and rough and perfect. “I could have taken you long ago and kept you, used you.”

“I am not for the keeping,” she says, or thinks she says. Her hands are wrapped around his wrist, to stop him or to urge him on she does not know. But her body has decided and her legs spread wider, hips shoving down to take in more of him.

“And yet here you are,” he says, and bites down on her neck. She cries out, echoing in the cavern and it feels as though the entire mountain will quake and fall.

He pulls out of her and fumbles at his trousers, panting harsh against her shoulder as he frees his cock. She looks down between their bodies and her breath catches; it is heavy and red, too large. It will hurt her.

And it _does_ , delicious and burning bright. It is an invasion that seems to drag on for an age as he stretches her, tight and tense around his girth. She comes in a jumbled rush, pain tugging at pleasure; she cries out again and he clamps a hand on her mouth. She can smell herself on his fingers and drags her teeth across his palm.

He curses in something dark and dwarvish. “You test my patience,” he snarls.

She yanks his hand away. “And you have exhausted mine. I thought you were going to use me for some purpose.”

He kisses her, brutal and meant to punish as his hips snap against hers, still too much and not enough. She feels consumed, burned; she clenches her hands in his coat. But she cannot get leverage, and so she pushes at him, hard, her shoulders pressed against piles of gold. It succeeds in throwing him off, and she twists her hips, pushing him further until he rolls onto his back, hands gripping her thighs.

“Or perhaps,” she says, breathless but gloating, looking down at him, “I can get use out of you.”

“Bella,” Thorin says, the first time she has heard her name from him in days, and she rides him as he would have ridden her, no thought for his pleasure as she fucks him. His cock is still thick and hard inside her as she shakes, and when she opens her eyes it is to see him desperate, almost afraid.

“Ask me, oh King Under the Mountain,” she says. “Ask for what you want.”

“Please—“ He gets no further before he is coming, mouth open in surprise, and she leans down to kiss him, encircle his wrists and press them up above his head as he shudders. She can feel sticky slickness between her thighs but she does not pull off or away; instead she leans down on his wrists, enjoying the pain that flashes across his face.

“Anything,” she promises, and it echoes in the cavern.


End file.
